


Consequences

by antithestral



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27175517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral
Summary: [ABANDONED]“So I’m thinking, you know,” and now there’s almost no space between them at all, and it's hard to remember what Hal wanted to say, when Bruce's eyes are sharp, diamond-pale, focused entirely on him, “if we're staring an extinction event in the face, then I don't have to deal with the consequences of my bad decisions for too long, right?”“Hal,” he says, in that soft, liquid voice, and Hal’s knees start to do something fairly stupid, so he slides a hand under Bruce's jaw, feels the prickle of fresh stubble, the fluttering pulse of his jugular. If the punch is gonna come, it’ll come now.But it doesn't.
Relationships: Hal Jordan/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unfinished, and unlikely to be continued.

It happens like this.

A Schwarzschild wormhole opens up in the Southern Atlantic Ocean, just off the coastline of Corto Maltese, and starts pouring--

“Robot kaijus,” Superman mutters, sounding a little stunned over the roar of the wind on his comm, as he breaks the sound barrier somewhere over Alabama, heading to the battlesite. 

“Robot kaijus!” Hal repeats enthusiastically. There’s a couple of grunts from him, while he presumably staves off an attack. “Like the big Godzilla-looking motherfuckers in the movie, but with armor plating! _Go DOWN, you fuckwad!_ And plasma cannons, holy _sh-!”_

“Did he die?” Diana asks, from the pilot seat of the Javelin, when Hal’s feed turns to a wash of static noise. She sounds remarkably composed.

“Vitals online,” Batman replies, checking the stats screen. “Slightly elevated pulse. He’s fine. When we arrive, I’ll take over flight control.”

Diana hums her agreement. “Robot kaijus,” she murmurs, sounding amused. “Poor del Toro. I liked that movie.”

Bruce snorts.

\---

They straggle into the Watchtower’s briefing room in various states of repair, six hours later, dried off, a little bruised, but otherwise whole.

“What’s this about?” Lantern mumbles. There’s an ugly mottled purple covering the side of his face, butterfly bandages over his eyebrow and cheek. 

“Debrief,” Batman mutters. 

“Not the fun kind either,” Hal mumbles, and buries his face in his arms, sounding exhausted. Bruce lets it pass. Before the League arrived, Hal had been single-handedly fending off four of the bloody… oh god, now everyone’s going to call them _robot kaijus._ Why is this his life.

“When do you think the next attack will be?” Clark asks, when everyone’s settled in.

Hal jerks up straight. “Next?” He turns to Bruce, brown eyes puppy-huge. “ _Next?_ ”

“The attack was poorly organized. The…” something inside Bruce dies, “ _robot kaijus_ were small, poorly armed, and easily fell to our attacks.” Hal glares, and points angrily at his bruise. Bruce ignores him. Bruce is very good at ignoring him. “They were, however, fitted with these,” Bruce continues without pause, and thunks the thin, flat hard-drive-adjacent piece of tech down on the table. “Hyperspace-broadcast capable communicator arrays. Cyborg pulled it off the blue one, with the--”

“--plasma cannons,” Hal mutters darkly, remembering. He’d taken that one out. 

“Yes, _plasma cannons,_ thank you, Captain Kirk,” Bruce bites off. “This was clearly a scout group, designed to trigger exactly the kind of defense response it did, equipped with a link back to wherever they were from. Lantern, any assistance in that regard--”

“Yeah, you got it, Mr. Spock.”

Bruce stifles a sigh, and turns to face the battered League, still watching him with quiet, alert faces. “Whoever they send next, will be ready for us. So we’ll need to be ready for them.”

\---

“Anything?” Bruce asks, voice hoarse, some nine hours and change later.

Hal blinks slowly at the screen, and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s ice cold. When he puts the cup down, his hand trembles, and for a moment Hal stares at the offending limb like it maybe doesn’t belong to him. 

“No,” he replies finally. “Communicator array was fried and then dunked in seawater, it's useless now. No backtrace possible. As for the bomb, the source material is too generic. Easily available on black markets, if you know where to look. And anyone who builds robot kaijus…” He shrugs.

“Knows where to look.” Bruce sighs, scrubs his eyes. 

“Any luck with the Kryptonian archives?”

“Interfacing with the Fortress takes a while. The compiler wasn’t really written for non-binary systems.”

Hal stares mournfully at his coffee. “How much time, do you think?”

“Several hours,” Bruce admits. “We should… break for a while.”

Hal tips his head back, the long line of his throat glowing in the computer screen’s glare, and rolls his shoulders slowly, exhales, letting his eyes fall shut. 

He was exhausted a few hours ago, before he found his second wind, and he knows, from days at the Air Force Academy, and before, when he’d held down a couple jobs all through high school, that he can keep going for a while, maybe stretch it out for a whole day even. He knows too, that the longer he keeps going, the sloppier he’s going to get, reflexes loosening out, instincts blurring from fatigue, until--until he makes a mistake.

“Sounds good,” he mumbles, and turns to Bruce. Bruce, with his cowl pushed back and his eyes shadowed, resting lightly on him, stubble darkening that Hollywood jawline, and it makes something curl under his skin, the lazy, insidious smoke-spiral of desire.

“Come on,” Bruce says, getting up, not quite breaking the spell. “You can take the blue room.”

\---

By the time Hal wakes up, the next--day? That evening? Time’s hard to keep up with, when you spend most of it underground and off-planet and in orbit and--yeah. Dyschronometria was about as close to describing it as he’d ever gotten, except that was an actual psychological condition, and what Hal was suffering was pretty much just intergalactic jet-lag. 

By the time he wakes up, then, it's gone dark, and the pillow creases down his cheek tell him he’s been out for at least eight hours. He gets up to his feet, stretches, flicks on the table lamp, and then yelps, stumbling back onto the mattress, hastily tugging a sheet over his groin, when Batman-- _Bruce_ becomes visible, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Jesus motherfucking--don't you _knock,”_ Hal snaps, still blinking away the fog of sleep, trying to wrap his head around the concept of Bruce in--in a long-sleeved henley and… _jeans._

Oh no. 

There are alarm bells going off in his head, while Bruce arches a devastating eyebrow. 

Oh this is very, very bad. 

“It’s _my_ house,” Bruce points out, and he looks exceptionally constipated today, doesn’t he? Except Hal’s barely even noticing that because _his_ brain keeps going into kernel panic over the low-slung waistband of Bruce’s jeans, the way that gloriously skin-tight henley seems to be two seconds away from riding up. 

“Fair,” Hal mumbles to himself, forcing himself to make eye contact. Bruce’s eyes are shadowed, dark, a notch worked into his brow. His cheekbones catch the faint golden glow from the table-lamp, and look, Hal’s only human. “That's fair. How did--uh.” There was a reason he came here, wasn't there? “How did the compiler do with the Fortress archives?”

“We might have something.” 

“Something?” 

Bruce shrugs, and for a half-second, the henley _does_ ride up, sweet hallelujah, and Hal glimpses a sliver of pale skin, the line of a sharp hip bone. His throat goes dry. 

“I need you,” Bruce says, and Hal’s eyes jerk upwards, but Bruce continues smoothly, “to get the ring to translate a little better.” Stupid. Stupid. 

“Sure,” Hal agrees, trying to sound--like he isn't losing his mind. “That’s--I’ll get right on that.”

Bruce’s gaze skitters down Hal’s chest--his _bare_ chest, oh no, why didn’t he wear a shirt, why didn’t he wear _pants--_ stops an inch short of his navel, and Hal feels a flush travel through him, burning in his ears painfully hot. “Um,” he tries intelligently.

“Maybe some clothes, first,” Bruce murmurs, jaw gritted tightly, his gaze lingering near Hals’ --collarbone? His… mouth? No. _God._ Near his overactive imagination, more like.

Hal opens said mouth, desperately trying to think of something sharp, and dismissive, to cut through the thick air, and tell Bruce, _‘No, you can--you can relax, I’m not--I’m not going to come on to you, for fuck’s sake, I’m not an idiot, I can read basic social cues, what do you think’s gonna happen here?’_ but Bruce is already turning sharply, exiting the room, clicking the door behind him firmly shut, while Hal’s pulse trips in his ears, and he tries to remember why oxygen matters to the human brain.

\----

The decryption program they manage to cobble together puts up an ETA of 2.36 hours on the clock, and Bruce sighs, mouth set in a grim line.

“We can’t do anything else for now,” Hal says quietly, and receives a muted ‘Hn,’ in response. Great. He’s gone pre-verbal.

“If there’s nothing else, Master Bruce,” comes Alfred’s voice from the back of the Cave, where he’s been fiddling with the guts of the Batmobile, “perhaps it’s time to prepare for the evening?” The inflection at the end, Hal’s pretty sure, is just for show. Alfred runsBatman’s _life_.

Batman _lets_ him.

Really, wonders never cease.

“The evening?” Bruce asks, eyes glued to the countdown. 2.38 hours, now. Great.

“The fundraising event for Senator Ellis.”

Bruce doesn’t so much sigh, as he… slumps. A little. “That’s tonight?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Bruce sighed.

“I’ve laid out your suit already. Master Damien may need to be wrangled into his.” 

Hal manages to swallow his grin, but from the way Bruce’s eyes flick sideways to meet his, a little crinkle in the corner, a dark, faceted blue, he _knows._

“I’ll talk to him,” Bruce mutters.

“Terribly considerate of you,” Alfred replies smoothly, and this time Hal can’t quite hide the snort. “Mister Jordan, if you’d like to attend, your presence would be very welcome.”

Hal spins his chair around, and offers an apologetic smile, picking lightly at the collar of his Lantern suit. “Sorry, Alfred. Don’t think these threads’ll cut it.”

“Nonsense. A suit can be arranged with no difficulty.”

“Isn’t this fundraising shindig in--” he glances at a clock, “--less than a couple hours?”

“Indeed.”

“Alfred…” he says slowly, curiously, almost afraid to find out. “Do you, in this house, on these grounds anywhere, at this moment, have a suit that has been perfectly tailored for me?”

Alfred’s smile is excruciatingly bland, and conveys less information than Batman’s most terrifying scowl. So that's where he learned that. “Perfection is such a subjective term.” A beat, and then, “I’ll bring it to your room, shall I?”

\----

Hal looks in the mirror, and grins, smoothing down the lapels, and adjusting the tie. Damn, he’s still got it.

There’s a knock on the door, and Hal calls a ‘Come in!’ while turning a slight degree, eyes trained on the mirror. 

Alfred pauses just past the door, and smiles gently. “Comfortable, sir?”

Hal grins a little wider. “You know it is,” he replies, and Alfred inclines his neck briefly at the compliment.

“Will you be joining the evening’s festivities? Master Bruce and Master Damien have already gone downstairs.”

“Yeah.” Hal stares in the mirror, looks at the guy he sees there, slick hair and perfect suit, expensive cologne and shiny wingtips, all his rough edges pared down to a glossy, plastic veneer. “It's not really me, though.”

“It's not really Master Bruce either,” Alfred murmurs gently. “But it _is_ useful,” he says, and then there’s the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth before he adds, “and it _can_ be fun. Open bars, good music--and excellent food, if I do say so myself.”

Hal chuckles to himself, and meets Alfred’s eye in the mirror. “Y’know,” he says half to himself, “I could eat,” and pretends he doesn't notice how arch Alfred looks just then. 

\----

The party’s in full swing by the time Hal gets there, stopping at the balcony that overlooks the main ballroom, because Bruce has a ballroom, of course he does. Damian’s already managed to pull a disappearing act, but Bruce has positioned himself at the heart of the room, surrounded by a glittering crowd, a pretty socialite draped over his arm. Hal recognizes her, from back when he used to play Carol’s platonic armcandy at the DoD soirées: the daughter of a junior West Coast senator with presidential aspirations, plenty ambitious herself, and form the way Bruce slants her a dark, knowing look, before murmuring in her ear, she’s remained exactly as handsy as she used to be. 

His gut tightens, but there’s Alfred to consider, and this incredibly good suit that he’ll feel guilty if he wastes, and anyway--open bars. They’re God’s way of saying it’ll all work out.

He avoids Bruce’s line of sight carefully, and snags a flute of champagne, draining it in two quick gulps before grabbing another. The server is too polite to look alarmed, but Hal spares him a sheepish hitch of his shoulders, and wanders down to the hors d’oeuvres table, starts loading up a plate with tiny bites of fried camembert, little shot glassses of chocolate mousse, and some kind of horrifying, deconstructed scallops situation that looks like the back end of a Ucnicean slug. 

“Hal?” 

Hal chokes on his camembert, swallows hard and turns around, eyes almost watering and definitely red. He’s _not_ still got it, apparently. 

“Miranda?” he asks, doing his best shocked voice,!like he didn't notice her shoving her tits into Bruce’s forearm three minutes ago. “What are you doing here?”

Miranda laughs airily. “Oh, Daddy needed a date, Mother’s out of town, you know how it is.”

Unfortunately.

She trails a scarlet-painted finger-claw down Hal’s tie, smirking, her lips blood-red, glossy and full, and Hal remembers why he hadn't minded her getting handsy at all, back in the day. “Doesn't explain why _you're_ here, flyboy. You friends with Brucie?”

 _Brucie._ Holy shit. “Carol introduced us, and I was in town,” Hal replies smoothly, and curls his lips faintly when she twists his tie around her index finger. “I’m so glad I ran into you,” he murmurs, because the only way out of this is through, except, hopefully, he’ll manage to detour around her bed. Once was… extremely enough. 

“Hal!” booms Bruce’s awful socialite voice, and Hal turns a half degree, tips a shot glass of mousse towards Bruce in greeting, stepping firmly away from Miranda, and plastering on a sloppier, wider grin. 

“Bruce,” he murmurs, tips his jaw up, puts on his dirtiest bedroom eyes, and watches the faint answering glimmer in Batman’s eyes when he takes the hint. 

_Brucie_ stalks up to him with all the grace of a hungry panther, draws short about three inches too close. His eyes flicker between Hal's eyes and his mouth like he can't make up his mind. “I didn't think you’d… come,” Bruce says, low and intimate. 

Hal arches his eyebrow. _Laying it on a little thick there, aren't we, buddy?_

Bruce smirks faintly. _Your turn, Jordan. Or maybe it's too hard for you?_

Hal narrows his eyes, and then purposefully steps closer. The back of his neck prickles and Hal knows they have an audience. He watches Bruce's eyes, crystal blue, a winter sky devoid of clouds. “Of course I came,” he replies softly. “You asked so… _nicely._ ”

Bruce’s expression doesn't flicker, but Hal sees his shoulders tremble finely. Bastard’s trying not to laugh, is he? After Hal used that gem of a line? Motherfucker. Hal _smolders_ at him. 

“Let's-ah-” Bruce leans forward, just a little, using every additional inch of height he's got on Hal to bully into his personal space. Not that Hal minds. Christ, Hal doesn't mind at _all._ “Let's get some air.”

He should reply right? Has it been a while? He should say something. Were Bruce’s eyes always this blue? 

“Hal?”

“Air,” he croaks. “Air sounds good.”

He follows Bruce numbly, setting aside the shot glass, out to a small, shaded balconette, hidden behind a tapestry, overlooking the west gardens, tiny lamps illuminating gravel lined paths all through the darkness. The air is crisp against his overheated skin, and Hal breathes in gratefully. 

“Nicely done,” Bruce murmurs, all the silk and curl home from his voice now, and Hal realizes that this is what he really sounds like, that everyone out there was getting a performance but Hal… Hal has audience to something rare: Bruce, being utterly himself. 

“Thanks for the save,” Hal replies. 

“Miranda is…”

“Grasping? Scheming? Mean?”

“Ambitious,” Bruce corrects, “in a segment of society where ambition in women is actively penalized.”

Hal sighs. “Yeah, yeah. Stop being more evolved than me.”

“That would be _incredibly_ difficult,” Bruce shoots back smoothly.

Alright, so maybe Bruce bring himself isn't one _hundred_ percent a gift. 

“You know,” Hal muses out loud, “if we stay out here much longer, they’re gonna think we’re screwing.” He turns to Bruce with a teasing grin, but Bruce is simply looking at him, quiet and watchful and--and too much, when Hal is in _his_ home, on _his_ turf, wearing clothes he _gave_ … 

“Wait,” Hal says quietly, and the distance between them is a fraction, nothing. His eyes are dark. 

“Hal,” Bruce says, low, hoarse, eyes a little too wide, like he's surprised, how is he _surprised_ , he _knew_ didn't he? He knows everything about everything, how could he have missed that Hal was sort of desperately, pathetically, panting after Bruce everytime he walked into a room, how could he---

And that's when their League comms go off. 

\----

“Bat, six o’ clock!” Arthur calls out. Diana’s warcry carries beautifully in the dry, desert air when she launches off the hood of the Batplane, onto the back of the robot kaiju aiming at Bruce, driving her sword into its ‘head’ with a wild burst of electricity and the screech of tearing metal. 

“They can _fly_ now?” Hal whines, while a giant green boxing glove suckerpunches a robot directly into the line of fire of Clark's laser vision. “How is _that_ fair?!”

“Lantern, keep the comms clear of chatter,” _you headass idiot_ remains kindly unvoiced, but Hal hears it loud and clear. God he was such an asshole. And Hal was so, so fucked. 

“Batman,” Cyborg reports, firing a plasma blast at one of the mecha-zillas --aw man, mecha-zillas would have been an _amazing_ name-- the results from your scan are complete.”

“You find a weak spot?” Batman asks, opening fire at the robots, the Batplane barely visible against the Bialyan night sky. Two go down in quick succession, and Arthur tridents another through the face. Only six left. 

“Sure did,” Victor replies. “After a weight distribution analysis on all the bots based on the prototype designs I have here, I've isolated what look like some external-access hatches in the, uh, neck, I guess is the word.”

“Hit there?” Barry asks enthusiastically, if in poor grammatical taste. 

“They’ll crack like an egg,” Victor says with a bloodthirsty little smile, tucking his arms into his sides to streamline against wind resistance, and dives into the fray. 

The rest of the fight lasts fifteen minutes.

\----

When they troop back up to the Watchtower, in considerably better humours this time round, the results of the Batcomputer’s scan is complete. 

“What do we got?” Clark asks for the rest of team, while Bruce brings up the results on the main view screen. 

“We have point of origin. One of the Outer Rim planets--”

“Really?” Hal mumbles. “Star Wars too?”

Bruce ignores him, “--outside of Oa jurisdiction--”

“Nothing is outside Oa jurisdiction,” Hal cuts in sharply, for the benefit of the whole League.

“There hasn't been an active Lantern assigned to the Sector in eighteen millennia,” Bruce retorts, just as harsh. “I’d say it's out of their jurisdiction by estoppel, if not outright negligence.”

“...that's not possible.”

Bruce arches a mocking eyebrow at him, Hal can tell, from under the cowl, and Diana asks the obvious question: “Who are they? Why are they attacking us?”

“Maybe Earth has become a proving ground,” Ollie spits darkly. “Won't that be fun.”

“A proving ground?” Barry asks. 

Ollie shrugs. “We beat back Doomsday and Steppenwolf and Braniac. If you want to be the biggest, meanest guy in the yard, what do you do?”

“Oh.” Barry looks tense, drumming his fingers so fast they blur in and out of sight, the sound like a a faint, persistent hum, hummingbird wings in the distance. “You find the biggest, meanest asshole, and you beat him up.”

Ollie cocks a half-smile. “Bullseye.”

“Actually,” Victor says, “Batman has another theory.”

“Of course he does,” Ollie says. “Do share with the class, O Fearless Leader.”

“Triangulation,” Bruce replies. 

Barry, with his sixty-four PhDs, and Hal, with his years in the USAF, are the first to catch on, blanching a sickly white at the same time. 

“Oh wow,” Ollie mutters, after a second. “That’s _much_ worse.”

Shazam looks completely blank, bless his soul. “Triangulation?” he asks. 

“We know they’re fitted with hyperspace communication equipment,” Bruce answers. “We know this attack, in terms of weapons capability, had almost no improvement over the last one.”

“They could _fly!”_ Hal protests, and gets another eyeroll in response. 

“Yes, Lantern, because jet propulsion technology, _that’s_ our weak spot.”

Hal glares. 

“As I was saying: I think we need to assume this was simply another scout group.”

Black Canary nods, thoughtful. “To what end?”

“To determine Earth’s defenses,” Clark supplies, catching Bruce’s eye for confirmation. “To determine our possible location, the time it takes for us to arrive, the wider extent of our flight capabilities.”

“You said something about triangulation.”

Bruce nods. “If we're right, there will be one more scout group, to provide them enough data to at least estimate our location within a couple of standard deviations, before the _real_ attack.”

“The real attack,” Canary breathes. “Mother of God, who _are_ these people?”

Bruce looks, if possible, even more grim. “There is no known name for their species. Krypton records contact several millennia ago with a cosmic traveler named Primus, who exhibited a form of mechanical… life? The technology we’ve seen bears a resemblance to his descriptions, adjusting for… evolutionary adaptations.” A holographic universal map projects from the surface of the League’s conference table, centered at Earth. Bruce waves his hand slightly, and the map scrolls away rapidly, moving thousands of millions of light years, until the universe seems to… empty out. When it stops again, there is almost nothing to see, the faint pinpricks of ancient red giants in a lonely stretch of space. The center is blank. “That,” Bruce says, “is their home planet. Cybertron.”

Shazam frowns. “There’s nothing there.”

Victor smiles bleakly. “There’s nothing _visible,”_ he corrects. 

Shazam, finally, has started to look scared too. “We can't break through the shielding?”

“We don't even know _how_ they’re shielding,” Victor says. “If they had managed to hide their gravitational imprint, we wouldn't even know something was there, let alone a whole _star system.”_

“Even Oa doesn't know they're there, do they?” Hal asks scratchily. “That's why there hasn't been a Lantern assigned.”

Bruce nods. 

“Well, fuck. What now?”

“Now? We train.”

\-----

Hal is waiting for Bruce at the door to his private quarters, after the Holy Trinity have done their post-conference secret talk time, arms crossed over his chest, leaning lightly against the steel doorframe. 

“Hey,” he says casually.

Bruce levels a glance at him, and then walks into his room silently. Hal assumes his invitation, and follows, breathing out quietly when the doors shut behind them and Bruce turns to him, and tugs off his cowl. 

There's that old familiar swoop of his gut, that tightness in his throat, _oh fuck, he’s gorgeous,_ equal parts resentful and wanting, except Bruce is looking at him again, like _that,_ and Hal doesn't know--

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” he says, blandly cheerful. “I’m thinking, any civilization that has been able to successfully mask their _existence_ from the Oa for several however many years has gotta be pretty advanced.”

Bruce doesn't say a word. Great. 

“I’m thinking, if these guys have the sense to orchestrate a planned, strategic attack on Earth, if they bring the full force of their technological prowess up against us, it doesn't matter how much we train: we’re not going to have…”

“A snowball’s chance in hell?” 

_Now_ he speaks. 

“Yeah, basically.” 

There’s a whole room’s worth of space between them, and this isn't the sort of thing that works from a safe distance. Of course, there's still a pretty significant chance Hal’s going to walk away from this with a fractured eye socket and a bloody nose, but hey--that's what makes it fun, right? He walks closer. 

“So I’m thinking, you know,” and now there’s almost no space between them at all, and it's hard to remember what Hal wanted to say, when Bruce's eyes are sharp, diamond-pale, focused entirely on him, “if we're staring an extinction event in the face, then I don't have to deal with the consequences of my bad decisions for too long, right?”

“Hal,” he says, in that soft, liquid voice, and Hal’s knees start to do something fairly stupid, so he slides a hand under Bruce's jaw, feels the prickle of fresh stubble, the fluttering pulse of his jugular. If the punch is gonna come, it’ll come now. 

But it doesn't, it doesn't, and Bruce’s eyes have dropped to his lips, and then Hal’s closing his eyes, tipping his mouth against Bruce’s in a dry, gentle brush, the sharp, warm exhale against his cheek like electricity, like a rush, and then he’s doing it again, again, cradling his face in shaking hands, kissing and kissing, so gentle and chaste, a prom night kiss, a first date kiss, a do-you-want-this-please-say-yes kind of kiss, and his pulse is hammering, a thunderstorm of desire. 

He's almost not ready for it, when Bruce’s mouth opens, the silk-wet slide of his tongue, the shuddering, broken groan that feels like it’s shaking out his ribs, but then Bruce is saying, “Christ fuck,” twisting his fingers tight in Hal’s hair, dragging his jaw back, biting hard into the tendons of his neck, sucking, and it's all Hal can do, to stay upright, while blood rushes to his cock, hands gripping Bruce’s back, his waist, clutching the perfect curve of his ass, “Fuck, fuck, god, come on, we have a _bed--”_

It's a slow, graceless topple to the mattress, Bruce landing hard on top of him, Hal desperately trying to tug off his flight threads and the Batsuit with one hand, the other locked around Bruce’s ass for dear fucking life.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! If you liked it remember to hit kudos <3  
> for more nonsense, find me on tumblr @pasdecoeur.


End file.
